


To Pick Up The Pieces

by PatrickArch



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8683264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatrickArch/pseuds/PatrickArch
Summary: Rated Mature for mental illness, violence, and language. In the wake of the Reach Invasion, Jaime comes to understand what the implications of being a "hero" really are.





	1. Chapter 1

     Jaime wasn't sleeping.

     His back was placed against his bedroom wall - his nightly routine - within sight of both his door and window.

     And yet he still felt that buzz in the back of his head.

     The window was locked and the door was closed. He was safe. But he didn't dare sleep. He knew what would happened if he did - and he couldn't deal with it.

     Still, he felt the pull. Both his body and the scarab were trying to make him rest. But Jaime knew better. The nightmares could go fuck themselves for all he cared; he was so weary of seeing them whenever he closed his eyes, yet he never got accustomed to them. It was always his fault. Wally died because of him, and it felt like there was always going to be another invasion and the next time, he wasn't going to be so lucky. 

     This knowledge was something he felt right down to the very marrow of his bones. And though he felt as if the world was setting out to make him miserable, he was accepting of it, because he deserved to be punished.

     He looked forlornly at the bottle of sleeping pills on his desk. He didn't like what they did to him. They didn't stop the nightmares and instead of being able to wake up from them when the horror became too much, he was trapped within the hell of his own mind's making.

     But morning would be coming soon. The light filtering through his window was turning white, replacing the dark indigo of the night. His assumption was proven right as his sister knocked on the door, calling to him to, "Quit being lazy and wake up, big brother!"

      "Sí, sí, I'm awake already!" he replied, standing up. His tired joints cracked; whether it was in protest or relief from his crouch he was too tired to tell. And so, his day began:

     7:05 am he made his way downstairs fully dressed in the same exact clothes he wore each and every single day - denim pants, black tee and grey hoodie - ready for school.

      7:15 am he was out the door, having quickly eaten some oatmeal and not flinching or nearly losing his mind when one of his family members walked behind him, or were so noisy he couldn't hear over the din to determine if there were any sounds that were out of place.

     7:45 am he arrived at school early. He surveyed the area outside the school before sweeping the interior and eventually making his way to his locker.

     8:30 am he was sitting in class in the back corner where he could look out the window as well as keep an eye on the door located at the front of the room.

     11:45 am he ate lunch outside – it was Friday which meant a ham sandwich - his back pressed up against the northern brick side of the brick school, where the least number of students hung out. 

      3:05 pm the bell rang releasing him from the torture of the day that he forced himself to endure day in and day out because he was still trying to find some normality; and failing miserably at it. 

     He wanted to stop by the local music store for an hour to browse, help clean and play some guitar.

     But it wasn't on his schedule. He had to abide by the schedule, it was what kept him safe and sane.

     He made his way home, because it was the only place he felt safe, and even then, that security was a tenuous thing.

     A large block in his schedule was described as "Prep time." He could start on his homework, his room so he could take out his clothes and things for tomorrow, or get a head start on his patrol. Saturdays and Sundays were reserved for hero business.

     Indeed, he was prepping. Currently he was alone in the kitchen, by himself because as supper wasn't due for another hour or two, Jaime was making his lunches for the week. In five neat piles were his Monday through Friday meals. He had: tuna sandwich, alfalfa sprouts and cheese sandwich, chicken salad sandwich, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and ham sandwich. With each sandwich was this; a Cortland apple, one cheese string, a wildeberries granola bar, and his reusable bottle that he filled with water.

     With his food neatly portioned and packaged - and labelled for the sake of being thorough - Jaime put it all away in the fridge; the food for Monday at the front through to Friday in the back. He sighed contentedly as he closed the fridge, wondering about whether he'd start on his homework or cleaning his room.

     He decided to start on his homework making his way to his room to lose himself in the theoretical world of mathematics and English reading. On his neat desk, he divided his homework into three piles: urgent, not urgent and done. Needless-to-say, his schedule permitted him to have the third pile be much larger than the other two.

     He picked up the first paper on the urgent pile - the first of three - and read through it again. A History paper; about the Salem Witch Hunts which was one of the more interesting subjects available. Wordlessly, he began to do some research and to write a draft about sexism and lost medical knowledge.

 

     Going down for supper, he ate mostly in silence, not-listening to his sister and parents talk about their day. "The usual," he told them when they asked him about his. Going back up to his room, he finished editing his paper and then he picked up his biology homework. When he finished that, he went back and wrote the final version of his paper. That left his music class homework, which wasn't really homework. He had to write a full partition sheet, copying a song to get used to reading sheet music.

     He was pulled from his trance much later, as he was putting a final piece of his clothing away, when his phone buzzed against his desk - he jumped away from it, eyes wide and heart hammering against his chest before he realized it was just a text message. Stifling the urge to curse, he picked up the offensive object and glanced at the message.

 

     | **Bart** : Still up 4 movie nite?? 

 

     He had forgotten about that. How could he have forgotten? He put everything in his schedule. It was filled with blocks of times with things to do like a tangram is filled with shapes. With a stark realization, he noticed he hadn't put it on his schedule – probably because he never intended to go - but he had finished all his prepping so… With a sigh, he glanced at his digital clock; the green digits read nine thirty.

 

     | **Jaime** : Eta 20min. 

 

     He told his father, who was watching television, that he'd been invited to a movie night at a friend's place. As soon as he was out of sight, he donned the Blue Beetle armor, and flew at a leisurely pace to the nearest Zeta Beam.

     He was acutely aware of the bombardment of messages he was getting, judging by his phone vibrating at any rate. Bart must've been reminding him it wasn't until ten thirty or eleven; and possibly to grab chicken wheezies.

 

     Bart was sitting on the couch, watching television and- wait... Was he bleeding? He was. The back of his skull was matted with blood that not only pooled in the crevices, but was pouring freely down his neck. Head wounds were always bleeders he'd been-

      But why was he bleeding..?

     That's right, the key for the War World. Jaime looked down at his hand to find the key - he'd bashed in The Impulse's skull and now he would take down The Team and-

 

     Jaime gasped and wheezed; a much-needed breath filled his lungs until his chest felt like it'd pop. His hand was empty, Bart's skull wasn't oozing brains and he was in control of himself. Right?

     How had he gotten here? Jaime remembered seeing someone walk in this direction but he hadn't been. He'd been... He'd been... Where had he been going?

     "Blue, you okay?" Someone was talking to Blue, but they were looking at Jaime and it made him feel like he wasn't sure if he had closed the fridge doors or not and-

     "Yeah... Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he found himself saying. "I just... You know when you forget why you go somewhere? Yeah..." Awkward.

     "Well, I'd wager-" La'gaan! It was La'gaan speaking to him, to him - to Jaime, "-it might have been for food, or for the movie night. Wouldn't you think?"

     Right. He had wandered to the lounging area for the Team. All there was there was a kitchen, living room and restrooms - but if he'd come for that he'd have stopped anywhere else on the Watchtower that was closer.

     "I... Guess so," Jaime said, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. He was pretty sure that wasn't why he'd gone there, of all places, when he could be getting ready - had he done his prepping? He wasn't sure. At least he had an excuse, he'd left grapes in the freezer to munch on later.

     "Hey," La'gaan whispered - he glanced over his shoulder at Bart and Artemis - both seemingly absorbed in whatever was playing on the TV. "You okay? You seem out of it." Was Artemis here before?

     Jaime managed a weak smile, but only after paling for a second. "Yeah? I just..." Think. "Haven't been sleeping much, you know how it is... School right?"

     "Actually, I don't really, I apprenticed for the army. But yeah, I get you." He patted Jaime on the shoulder, telling him that should he need it, La'gaan was more than happy to brew a homemade somnolent just like his grandmother used to make.

     "Uh... Thanks, see you later," Jaime replied awkwardly, walking towards the fridge.

     The kitchen area was empty, and although the only separation it had from the living room was a breakfast bar and cupboards, Jaime found himself insulated from the sounds coming from the television.

     Thankful for the small break from everything, Jaime let himself release a long-suffering sigh as he leaned on the stone countertop. The cool granite felt nice on his hands and the grey colour was easy on his tired eyes. With another sigh, Jaime moved towards the freezer, glancing over his shoulder instinctually - the kitchen was still empty and he could see Artemis and Bart's heads poking from over their seats.

     He pulled out a bowl of frozen green grapes he'd put there earlier. It was a simple snack his mother had introduced him to when he was young - and very picky about what he ate. Jaime remembered telling his mother she was being silly when she put the grapes in the freezer.

     "Wait and see, míjo," she had told him. And he was glad she did, because to this day the Reyes family kept grapes in the freezer for after-school snacks or for a treat when it was hot outside.

     He popped one in his mouth, chewing it lightly. The cold hurt his teeth, and the grapes felt like a mix between slush and frozen applesauce; but he like the taste and it kept the grape from shooting juice everywhere when he ate it. He trudged out of the kitchen area and into the living room – moving from tile to plush carpet.

     Jaime sat next to Bart, giving him the side-eye as he munched on the grapes. He was still normal looking; and after a few moments, he turned to look around at who joined them.

 

     Artemis suddenly looked his way; her face dark and cheeks blue as if she'd been in the bitter cold. Half-frozen tears left ugly tracks on her cheeks as her reddened eyes, opened wide, bored into him.

     "It's all your fault."

     "Ah!" He bolted up. Panting, his eyes darted around wildly, his head whipping from side to side almost giving him whiplash.

     With a calming realization, he noticed he was in his  still room. Still sitting at his desk - his neat piles of homework all messed up from his dozing off.

     His breathing slowed, but remained heavy as he tried to calm down further. How long had he been asleep? He checked his phone. Eleven on the dot; an hour before midnight. Well, this was as good of a rest as he was going to get for a few days; he figured.

     "Got lucky," he mumbled to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. That nightmare had been tame. Jaime put his shaking hands flat onto the desk, trying to still his shaking nerves, to get a grip.

     He double-checked his phone; making sure he hadn't missed anything. It seemed like he'd been sleeping for even longer than he though; Bart hadn't even messaged him at all - much less to invite him to a movie night. Good; his schedule wouldn't be upset now. 

 

     He went around to "undo" his room so he could make sure it hadn't been tampered with. Usually that encompassed going through his desk - organizing every thing into one pile in order of class subject - going through his clothes drawers to organize his outfits, make his bed and pick up anything else. But as he'd already cleaned his room today - the window was locked and after various experiment he hadn't been able to unlock it from outside; the door was closed and everything was where and how he'd left it (he remembered).

     All in all, this barely took fifteen minutes - most of which was spent rooting through his clothes, since everything else was already so neat. Even if he undid his work; it could be redone in a matter of minutes.

     He was as quiet as a mouse in church while doing all this, and made sure to only use his desk light so no one else saw him. When he was done and slightly less on edge he sat on his mattress, the locked window and closed door in his sight. He waited like this until Saturday morning.

 

     "I'm going over to a friend's house; I'll-"

     "- Be spending the night, we know híjo, we know," his father interrupted him with a smile. "Honestly, I'm surprised we don't just wake up to find a note and you already gone!"

     Well that was just silly, Jaime thought. Absurd, even. Anyone could leave a note. What if a kidnapper did that with Milagro because they knew who Jaime was? "I'm too lazy to do that; I like to have some time to lounge," he told him instead.

      For his part, Jaime's father nodded before taking a sip of his coffee with a knowing smile. "Ah, to be young and lazy."

     "Instead of being old and lazy?" Milagro teased, entering the kitchen.

 

     Jaime tensed minutely as she barrelled into her seat; moving much too quickly for his taste. Chuckling awkwardly, he stood up.

     "Well, I'll be going." He leaned against the wall as he moved towards the entrance.

     "Where're you going?" she asked, much too loudly; he cringed. How could she have so much energy in the morning, and why was she being so damn noisy?

     "To a friend's," he replied.

     "Who?"

     "Connor's," he replied quickly. Did it matter? All his friends were in the same place!

      "Can I-"

     "No."

     "Aw! Bu-"

      "No."

     "Come on!" she whined. "I haven't seen any of your friends in forever, they never visit!"

     I don't invite them over. "Maybe next time," he told her, patting her head quickly and exiting. "Later!"

     "Have fun at Connor's!" his father called back.

 

     He quickly made his way to a park - deserted at this time of day as most people were still asleep - and after a cursory look around to make sure there was no one around; he put on his armour.

     He was headed for the Zeta Beams. Technically he could fly directly to the Watchtower, but he had literally no desire to fly through space. At all. He shuddered just thinking about it. Vast emptiness...

     He flew quickly but not hurriedly to his destination. No use in attracting unwanted attention by flying around leisurely, but at the same time, he figured an object moving too quickly would garner unwanted looks.

 

     As usual, the Zeta Beams in El Paso were deserted because, well, he was the only one who used them. It was sort of flattering, he would sometimes tell himself, to have Zeta Beams directed to his city; even if the actual reason was that this location was strategic for teleporters. Right between Mexico and the South-East coast, made deployment easier.

 

     He stepped in and felt his atoms separate, scrambling back together what felt like a second later, in another place.

     "B-Twenty-Two: Blue Beetle," announced the digitized voice, as he walked through the room.

 

     Jaime tensed for a moment, looking around the empty room, almost looking for the source of the voice. "Honey, I'm home," he mumbled tersely to himself, shedding his armor.

 

     With any luck he would be assigned patrolling, Jaime had grown to resent monitor duty more than the others and being benched with having, quite literally, nothing to do wasn't his idea of a good time. But Nightwing and Aqualad would be deciding how his weekend would go. Somewhat. Impromptu catastrophes had a way of swaying their decisions.

 

     The halls in front and behind him weren't as full as one would expect, despite the number of leaguers and team-members. Most of them were probably already on Earth, being communicated their mission over their comms or just living their lives.

     He pointedly avoided looking out the window as he walked - looking to his right, or even over his shoulder. The void was not something he was keen on seeing again anytime soon. Or ever. However, soon he made it to the section of the Watchtower where his team got its briefings and living quarters. In his opinion, it wasn't as homey as Mt. Justice, but it's not like he actually cared to compare anyways.

     The doors to the Team's area opened with a hiss and allowed him through. Usually the lights would turn on if he was the first to arrive - which happened more-often-than-not. The Team still attempted to maintain - in some form - its status as a stealth ops team, and due to their limited numbers, investigating everything every time of day was simply not possible.

     The lights were already on. Someone was already there, obviously. A quick scan after a moment or two of pure annoyance at not knowing who or what revealed it was-

     "You're early!" Nightwing observed. "Even for you," he said, looking at the clock.

     "Force of habit. Still getting used to Zeta Beams travelling time," he replied. It wasn't a total lie; but it wasn't like he'd say 'I couldn't stay at home for another instant.'

 

     Moving to lean against the wall, the entire entrance hall in his field of vision, Jaime spoke again. "Guessing I'm patrolling with Gamma squad again?"

     "No. No patrolling, at least not for another couple of hours. I'll explain later," he added after Jaime's questioning look.

     That buzzing in the back of his mind had returned; he hated not knowing. Despite, despite the buzzing worsening at the thought, he knew he couldn't extract anything that Nightwing didn't want to divulge.

      "So, I just wait?"

      "That, or we can spar?" It was said with a shrug; they both knew it wouldn't be a real workout for Nightwing.

     "I mean, is it going to end like last time?"

     "Maybe. Probably. Uh, yeah... yeah, definitely; totally, yeah."

     "I already got a headache, but uh, sure I guess."

     Nightwing moved into a fighting stance. Jaime did the same, albeit visibly less comfortably, and Nightwing moved in to attack.

 

      _Retract. Retract!_

     The armor was acting up - not fully realizing its host wasn't in any real danger, and Jaime was struggling with keeping it down. He felt like he had when he first got it; uncoordinated, afraid and aggravated.

     "Damn it," he growled under his breath, just barely managing to jerk clumsily away from another hit.

     It was like all his training had evaporated within seconds of the round beginning. He fought with his armour every step of the way and his divided attention caused him to dodge and move way too much, relying on his peripheral. It was draining and Jaime soon found himself already panting and his forehead glistening with sweat. He used to be better than this, what would the coach say about the school's soccer team's designated striker? Well, ex-striker, but still.

     "Okay, rest time," Nightwing announced as Jaime found himself flat on his back again. "Maybe you should take a nap before the others all get here; you look real tired."

     "Ugh, I'm fine, it's not like I've never pulled an all-nighter," he replied. Besides, out there he wouldn't be fighting the armor. "But now I need a hot shower; I'm already sore."

     Chuckling, Nightwing left him to his devices. With a grunt, Jaime got up, muttering about his rotten luck as he left the mat. As he was reaching the door he extended his hand to catch the light switch when he stopped. There, in the absolute corner of his eye was Tigress - Artemis, the girlfriend of Wally (who he let stop existing).

     "I hadn't noticed you were here," he blurted out - _stupid!_  - having caught his breath somewhat.

     She turned from her exercise - probably keeping her balance while she swung her sword - to look at him face to face. He knew she'd been looking at him from the floor-ceiling mirror.

     "Yeah."

     Her reply was blunt; curt. Fuck, he knew she'd be mad. _Be cool..._ "Did you just get here or..? I didn't hear the door." But how had he not heard or seen her? Her costume clashed nearly as much as La'gaan in the desert and he'd thought he'd been keeping an eye out...

     "Got here while you were sparring," she told him curtly, lowering into a crouch and staying there. "You're sluggish."

     "Yeah I-"

     "Watch your back on the field."

 

     He left soon after that. Knowing (hoping) she wasn't making a threat, however thinly veiled it would be, he hurried to the shower. As per usual he checked all around to make sure he was alone before stripping and showering.

     It was nice; showers were one of his few pleasures right now - and one of the reasons he semi-enjoyed coming here. No limit on hot water. One would expect for Jaime to shower shortly and quickly in an almost military manner but no, he took his time; enjoyed the feeling of every drop of water hitting his skin here and there, and there, and there. He appreciated cleansing his skin and washing his hair - even if only to rinse.

     The hot, humid air and the sound of water falling filled him and allowed him to relax for this small window of time.

     After five minutes he was done, a new record for him. Usually he went only about four minutes but he had been sore.

     Grabbing a towel, he quickly wiped his head and face so he could see and then dried himself off. The showers were still empty when he exited to go to the living room and wait.


	2. Chapter 2

****He sat in one of the green armchairs in the far corner, his hair still damp as he waited for the others to arrive. Jaime sat, cross-legged and hunched forward; elbows resting on his knees. Making himself small, but looking outwardly relaxed. At least, he hoped he did.

     He was more than aware of the time - 09:00 - and the fact that, still, there were only four members in the base. Megan had finally arrived from her room, which was located just out of the Team's area in the hallway next to the Leaguers' rooms. Connor stayed in one of them, as well as Bart - though he often bunked at the Flash's -  and any other member who didn't have a place to stay

     Jaime took the minute moment before Megan would make her way to the living room to quickly scan the rooms. Vitals were normal.

     "Hey, Jaime!" Megan said much too brightly as she floated through the kitchen counter to sit on the floor by  the coffee table.

     "Uh, hey," he replied managing to not pull a face at the sugary cereals she had filled her bowl with. He also ignored the gnawing in his stomach; eating before a mission never went well for him, no matter how much it helped with his buzzing headaches.

     "How was your week?" She seemed to be happily oblivious to his state of being; which was to have minimal interaction with anyone and to just do his job and get out.

     "Usual." 

     "Oh, that's nice!" she replied, though he hadn't prompted her to. "I've been trying to stay up to date on my college's  clubs and activities. I'm already the treasurer of  _two_  clubs! I watched _Legally Blonde_  before the semester started and I think it's wonderful how schools here have clubs and activities! Don't you think?"

     Jaime didn't respond, but he figured Megan assumed he nodded, as she had returned to her bowl halfway through her speech. She kept talking, between bites, her lips moving between chewing her food - but he was focused on something else. Her words were mere white noise in the background as he kept a constant vigil over his shoulder; knowing people passed by on their way to the cafeteria or meeting room, but he noticed that one heat print was making its way here. He wasn't very invested in the conversation, but was secretly glad Megan was doing okay.

     Jaime turned around to eye the door just as it opened. In walked Connor, clad in his usual clothes.

     "Hey," they both deadpanned. Connor smiled, Jaime snorted.

     "Hey," Jaime repeated, slightly bemused; then turning back to staring at nothing and everything.

     Nodding a hello once more, and an actual greeting to Megan, Connor left for the kitchen to make toast. Things were mostly quiet after that; the sound of preparing and eating food filling the otherwise silent room. Jaime didn't mind, with so many trusted people he felt more likely to let his guard drop somewhat. He still monitored the doors and knew when Artemis entered the showers and Bart left his room, but by the time Jaime had been warned, there was a blur of food, noise, and friendliness that was running to and from the kitchen and the living room, dropping crumbs everywhere. Jaime chuckled dryly at the scene that was about to happen.

     "Ugh, dude! You're picking that up," Connor complained to Bart as he dropped a wad of yogurt on the floor.

     "Heah, heah!" was his muffled reply, no doubt a ton of wet crumbs flying out of his mouth.

     "EW! BART!" Connor growled - but Jaime could hear the smile in his voice.

     All of this was pretty standard for a Saturday morning. It was loud, and familiar; and although he loved these people like a family, it was still _too loud_ on all his senses. So, exactly like every morning at the base. Except for what Nightwing had told him earlier; making his head buzz even more painfully. You'd think _Jaime_  was the one with super-hearing and not any of his metahuman teammates. Still, he managed to not turn tail or break down and yell at them to shut the fuck up. Seriously, there should be stories about how much of a saint he was. But then people would pray to him, and he had enough on his plate already.

     Jaime tried to relax into his seat, resting against the soft material as he waited and ignored his hunger until Nightwing showed up. At 10:00. Someone asked Nightwing how long he had been in that corner - and he just smiled. Of course, Jaime knew he'd only just shown up.

     Nightwing's smirk was quickly replaced with a professional mask as he stepped forward and pulled up his holographic computer. Everyone quieted down, watching the screens with rapt attention. A usual Saturday morning, almost.

     "As I told Jaime earlier," Nightwing said, moving his screens aside so he could look at the Team. Jaime sat up. "We won't be focusing on patrolling tonight."

     There was a collective silence; the air in the room feeling taut with the excited apprehension that  came before every mission. Nightwing looked at them, maybe expecting a smart-ass comment, but without details, they all just waited for him.

     "I've been investigating a series of thefts," he started; clips, photos, and newspaper clippings in multiple languages showing up on his holo-screen. "Aimed at aeronautics and navigation tech manufacturers mostly, but also at some weapon manufacturers and electronics engineering firms."

     "A series? You mean all these are linked then?" Connor asked, leaning forward.

     "Yes," he replied. Typing along his keyboard, some images changed while others zoomed in and enhanced. "They all share similar characteristics - though the targets themselves aren't that out of the ordinary so it was difficult to link them." He paused, highlighting the new images. "The same plastic explosive has been used to infiltrate each facility; a military-grade plastic explosive, but there's an ingredient in it-"

     "So, it's a homebrew?" Artemis asked, coming in, somehow up to speed on the situation. Jaime pushed down the cold lump that formed in his stomach at her arrival.

     Nightwing nodded. "It's still under analysis. It's a very heavy compound and we don't want to take too many risks in the lab, but we do know it's the same compound at every site; someone's calling card."

     "Someone with chemistry or military training?" This time it was Jaime who asked, looking too intently at their leader.

      Nightwing sighed as he replied, "Yes, so if you'd all stop interrupting me," he said with a smirk, "Though that isn't all. Obviously, every facility that's been attacked was armed with alarm systems - electronic with a generator as a back-up. We know the electronic systems were never alerted and there's no footage on the security cameras either."

     "Could've been wiped," Connor offered.

     "But if the electronic alarms weren't set off, it would mean either an EMP or a hacker, or that they were all inside jobs. But if they broke in with explosives, then why not simply destroy everything else to throw us off?" Artemis replied, walking to stand by Nightwing as she inspected the images. Jaime looked off to the side.

     "All this is _super_  interesting," Bart, of all people, piped up. "But does it really  matter? We know they'll use plastic explosives to get in at the next target, so all that matters is that we intercept?"

     After a beat of silence, people staring at Bart, Nightwing cleared his throat. "Exactly. I poured over all the details and put them in a file if you want to read about it, alright?" He looked around as he waited for an objection or comment of some kind. "Luckily, I have a few ideas on likely places to be the next target.

     "The first one," he said, pulling up new images of  cross-shaped logos, warehouses, and other buildings. "Is Ziegler, a firm in Switzerland, specializing in nanotechnology for medicinal purposes. It's currently working on a project called Valkyrie involving tissue regrowth and even regeneration at a meta-human rate. Miniaturization technology is part of the tech that's been stolen, so this firm would make a juicy mark."

     "But if the tech is only related to medicine - like automated stem cells; then what would be the use for the thieves? Do we even know _who_  is involved?" Artemis asked.

     "I have a few ideas," Nightwing replied. "It's a likely mark, but I think just monitoring it will be enough for now. Since Queen Industries, Wayne Tech and LexCorps have not been hit-"

     "What about STAR labs?" Wondergirl asked.

     "Already hit; a prototype resembling Cyborg's white noise canon. Since the others have not been targeted - and none are currently working on aeronautics or weapons projects - I ruled them out. For now. No, the most likely target I've found is a Canadian aeronautics manufacturer; Can-Aero. It made planes beginning in World War II and since then it's been at the forefront of the field along with other similar companies.

     "Recently they've joined forces with other smaller firms to start on a top-secret project. A miniature, one-man aircraft; though reading through their files it sounds like they're trying to make it all-terrain."

     "Okay, I get _why_  someone would want to steal that," Wondergirl piped up. "But at the same time,  _why_  would someone want to steal that?"

     Blue leaned forward in his seat to look at her. "It's an all-terrain one-man craft; with the other thefts, it could be repurposed into just about anything from an expedition scout to a mini-tank..." he trailed off in thought, casting a glance at Nightwing. Suddenly the back of his head was abuzz and calculations and speculations flew through his mind at blinding speeds.

     Nightwing nodded, and Jaime couldn't be sure, but he thought he could feel his leader's eye on him through the white lens of his mask... "That's what bothersome," he said. "If we were dealing with, I dunno, a team of geologists trying to make a scout it wouldn't be so bad-" 

     "-But as far as we know we're dealing with mercs trying to homebrew an Iron Man armor," Artemis finished.  Jaime would swear up and down that as she said those words her eyes were boring into him.

     "Ah man, I love that movie," Bart piped up, but was mostly ignored.

     There was a beat of silence as the team took in the information - and the meaning of it. If someone managed to build a one-man, all-terrain, hi-tech tank that could _fly_ , and it fell in the wrong hands; it could be like a rogue Blue Beetle. But the question still remained: who was behind the thefts and their purpose for the stolen items?

     "We'll send one or two teams to the Ziegler site as a back-up," Nightwing said, waving away the holo-images. "But our primary concern isn't there. We'll be divided into four squads:

     "Wondergirl, Beast Boy, you're with me on Alpha-squad; Tigress, Miss Martian, Batgirl you're on Beta-squad; Superboy, Blue Beetle and Kid Flash, Gamma-squad; we'll be coming to the Can-Aero site. Robin, Static, Bumble Bee; Delta-squad; Aqualad will be your backup. You're headed for Ziegler," Nightwing listed, before explaining the need for a designated techie on each squad - to disable or enable security as well as infiltrating the systems on-site or, if the hostiles should manage to acquire their mark, disable the tech.

     Their departure time was at 12:00 sharp, mainly to stake-out the site and if they thought necessary, add security measures and the like. This left them one hour and thirty minutes for preparation or in some peoples' cases, relaxing and eating.

 

* * *

     "Back on Gamma-squad, eh?" Bart asked, zipping to Connor and Blue after people went to do their pre-mission preparations. He popped some chicken-wheezies into his mouth. "Been a while since we haven't been on Beta."

     Blue snorted softly. "And here I thought we were moving up in the world," he replied dryly. "Do we know where we'll be stationed?" He didn't really care. As long as he wasn't on Tigress' squad it wouldn't be weird.

     "Beta-squad are handling perimeter and coordination and Alpha-squad is the second line of defense just inside the factory," Connor said, turning them and putting his phone away. "So, that leaves us deep inside the factory, possibly even in the lab."

     Blue frowned in thought. Usually Gamma-squad handled secondary ops, distractions, and generally speaking, the least important tasks. "That means they think they'll stop whoever's doing this before they get inside?"

     Bart looked at Connor. "Possibly," the latter replied. "I don't know many people who can get through Artemis or Nightwing, but if they were to get through _both_ , it means we're dealing with someone who needs to be hit _heavy_." His phone _dinged,_  alerting him of a message and he started typing away.

     Connor's words resonated in Jamie's mind. How come, in all his justifiably reasonable paranoia, he had not gotten wind of any of this? These thefts? And now he learned that not only Connor was apprehensive, but so were Artemis and Nightwing?

     As Bart rambled on, Blue studied Connor, who was still texting; his heart rate had picked up as well as his stress levels. Every now and then - while texting - he would glance at Blue. He didn't need a supercomputer to notice the closed-off look on Connor's face.

     Part of him worried the Team still didn't trust him after everything that had happened, and he couldn't blame them. There were times where he didn't trust himself either.

     "Hey, you been listenin' man?" Bart knocked on his head several times before Blue even registered it.

     "Hey! Stop that," he told him grouchily, taking care to move away. "No I wasn't. Who could even _try_  without your speed to match?"

     Bart chuckled but launched right back into what he had been saying, at the same speed as before; unfortunately. Blue looked back at Connor.

     He seemed obsessed with his phone; not looking at Bart very much and now even less at Blue. It unsettled him. He was sure it was because the others were still uneasy around him. Well, most of the others; Bart and Megan were just as nice, if not nicer than before.

     In any case, some part of Blue was happy that the full responsibility of keeping himself in check might not rest solely on his shoulders. Even if knowing the others felt this way worsened his headaches...

 

* * *

     A solemn silence hung in the air as Gamma Squad flew to the objective; all three members were riding Sphere, even Blue Beetle. Superboy, the squad leader, had insisted they all stay together.

     The back seat was cramped and Blue could tell Kid Flash was getting restless. He slapped his hand atop his teammate's to stop them from tapping again.

      _Stop_ , he told him through the mind-link, shooting him a glare.

      _Sorry! Restless y'know? Sitting still isn't-_  Kid Flash was interrupted by Superboy.

      _Both of you: shh!_  He even turned around to glare at them, a finger to his lips. After a moment, he turned back to look at the sky; their destination growing closer ever so slowly. The mind-link always felt crowded just before a mission began; like a buzzing beehive.

     It was driving Blue Beetle mad. Despite not being anywhere near as impatient as a speedster, being out in the open like this definitely made him restless; and he was already short on patience. Also, flying in another vehicle made him queasy for some reason.

     He begrudgingly admitted to himself that he was secretly terrified that bad guys were flying somewhere behind them in a cloaked ship. Of course they weren't; Blue had been scanning their surroundings nonstop since they had left base.

      _Blue_ , Superboy interrupted his thoughts. _You can infiltrate the security systems?_

He could.

      _Alpha and Beta Squads will open the way for us. They'll leave back-doors; use 'em. You're in charge of safeguarding any sensitive info, got it?_

Blue Beetle nodded. _Clear._

_KF and I will handle anybody who comes; Blue, hang back unless necessary._

With the game plan in place, the squad fell back into silence; though for two thirds of them it was much less stressful than before. Blue, for his part, was already working double-time tracking Alpha and Beta's progress, as well as probing the cyber-security system while they flew.

     This would the worst time to get a migraine, and although his head already felt like it was in a vice; keeping busy alleviated the pain somewhat. Kept him from going catatonic because he couldn't concentrate. He was notified when Beta temporarily disabled the locks and cameras long enough for Alpha squad to make their way to their destination.

      _Alpha's in,_ they heard over the mind-link. Superboy started descending as they neared the mark. Gamma Squad was to head to the Spec R &D workshop, sub-basement five.

      _Gamma heading in,_  Superboy told the other squads as they, too, infiltrated the facility.

     Blue had been keeping the back doors in mind; ready to use them the moment they were ready. _Locks and cameras are momentarily disabled_ , he warned Kid Flash and Superboy. The three entered the facility through the rooftop entrance; letting Sphere hang back until they were ready to leave. Not a second had gone by since the door clicked shut behind them that Blue warned them,  _exterior locks re-engaged_.

     The squad made its way to a floor with an elevator.

     "Elevators?" Superboy asked.

     "Disabled," came Nightwing's reply over the comm units. They heard some shuffling. "Security for the elevators is disabled, sorry."

     One short elevator ride later - Nightwing reactivated the security measures in the elevator afterwards - Blue hacked onto the mainframe for the sub-basement. 

     "Sub-basement five security disabled," Blue notified his and the other squads.

     They entered the actual workshop - and despite himself _knowing this room was absolutely safe and empty_ \- Blue couldn't help but scan the surroundings and look at every corner of the room. The room occupied most of the floor - he'd seen the floor plan on their way over and was glad that his scans didn't reveal a secret room of some kind. The only way in or out, aside from the locked elevator and stairwell, was the ventilation system. Still, somebody could sneak in through there; somebody like Bumblebee. The vents themselves were too small for a human and Blue made sure to never de-activate those measures. He also knew the vents were secured with very specific filters and sensors.

     The main room had a high, exposed ceiling with neon lights, cement floors and walls, all covered with cluttered worktables and blueprints respectively. If Blue thought his sister's room was messy, this was hell. However, nothing unsafe was left out. Truly, this space was the physical representation of _organized chaos_.

     In the middle of the floor - still devoid of life, save for Gamma Squad - there stood what Blue supposed was the prototype the company was working on. Tigress had been pretty damn close with her Iron Man Armour guess.

     The suit itself wasn't anywhere near as refined or streamline as Blue or even the actual Iron Man Armour; it was big, bulky and unsightly. It wouldn't even fit through a garage door it was so tall; and a preliminary scan revealed the joints were still very restrictive. Probably to prevent user-injuries.

     "This thing," Blue began, his eyes glued to the suit as Kid flash and Superboy inspected the floor, "in the wrong hands could be like a primitive Beetle armor. Why is this even being made?" He approached it, and after making sure no one was looking; Blue released a small drone to keep track of the armour...

     Blue's thoughts were cut short as Superboy tensed. He thought he was being sly, but Blue saw the minute movement - Superboy was looking at him and his heart rate picked up slightly. Sudden paranoia gripped Blue as he made inventory; he was still in control of everything - and even the normal painful buzz in the back of his mind did not feel out of place.

     Then his sensors went haywire.

* * *

     The home brewed plastic explosive should have been expected - but despite everything - Jaime had not picked up the charges in his scans.

     Blue didn't have time to cry out; something was blown in his face just as he turned around and suddenly he was overcome with fire. His mouth and throat burned, no matter how much he hacked and coughed; sniveled or snotted, it would just not stop. Even with the armor trying to purge the substance, Blue felt like he was blistering on the inside. Deathstroke kneed him in the stomach several times; pounding through the armor, somehow knocking the wind out of him. How could one human be so strong? His armor could withstand re-entry! But apparently, concussive impacts weren't something the armor could take without warning. Blue steeled himself for the next hit, but it never came. _What?_  Instead, Deathstroke pushed him to his knees and he heard the sound of a sword being drawn.

     "N-No..." Jaime rasped, panting and immobilized from the pain; his tongue felt swollen but cracked and dry at the same time, despite the amount of saliva his mouth was producing.

     "Nothing personal, kid," Deathstroke replied, and he swung down. Blinding pain took over Jaime's body as he hacked at one of the antenna on Jaime's back. "Tch, they weren't kidding; this stuff is tough," he grunted, "Time to take out the big guns." Before Jaime could ask, or even react to what the merc had said, the sword was put away. Deathstroke grabbed the antenna in one hand, and a moment later he slammed his foot against the already cut-up part savagely.

     A sickening crack like Velcro tearing, mixed in with a wet squelch followed. He tore Jaime's antenna right from his back, twisting and yanking at the filaments that still held it attached; like leftover bits of nerves and tendons.

     " **A̸̡̼̘͍͔͖͙͋̑̏ͥ̇̆̚Ų͎͖̠͓ͯ̈́͊͟Ŗ̭͉ͪ̍̉̃̂̔̓̚G̛̱͇̹̮̮͔̻̪ͬH̸͉̘̼̣̱̻̣̍̀̃ͩ̓ͧ̅ͤ͠** " Jaime screamed, his voice breaking, tearing out his own throat with the pain. 

**̣͎̿̈́ͪ**

     Everything around them quieted; slowed down as the teenager screamed his lungs out, rolling, writhing in agony; trying to crawl away while blinded by the pain and the tears. He whimpered and grabbed at nothing in a childish attempt to alleviate the suffering.

     Rough hands hoisted him up and the next thing Jaime was aware of was the murderous howl of one of his teammates and the clash of steel. After that, everything was a blur of pain and flashes of light as his body flushed out whatever the mercenary had attacked him with...


	3. Chapter 3

     Everything was blurry and muted: the people moving around him were hazy, colourful blobs dashing here and there; the sounds were dulled and distant, as if he was hearing everything through water. The only thing he completely felt the impact of was his injury. His shoulder blade felt like it had been seared in a fire, torn open and salt shoved into it.

     Of course, it wasn't HIM that was injured, but rather the Scarab. It had been ITS antenna that had been savagely cut and torn off. The armor was in agony, and that meant Jaime was suffering the brunt of it

     He hadn't even realized he'd been howling until he was short of breath and even more lightheaded. His throat burned; his body was so hot that the air - cold by comparison - was cutting his throat. He couldn't even swallow because of the pain.

     "God fucking damn it!" Someone roared. Or they could have shouted something else, Jaime was not listening.

     Suddenly, hands were on him, presumably, the hands of whoever had just bellowed keeping him steady and stopping him from rolling around. He recoiled at their touch. _His shoulder, his shoulder! Why, in the name of Heaven and Hell, were they touching his fucking shoulder?!_

     "G̛̱͇̹̮̮͔̻̪ͬA̸̡̼̘͍͔͖͙͋̑̏ͥ̇̆̚A̸̡̼̘͍͔͖͋̑̏ͥ̇̆̚A̸̡̼̘͍͔͖͙͋̑̏ͥ̇̆̚A̸̡̼̘͍͔͖͙͋̑̏ͥ̇̆̚Ų͎͖̠͓ͯ̈́͊͟Ŗ̭͉ͪ̍̉̃̂̔̓̚G̛̱͇̹̮̮͔̻̪ͬH̸͉̘̼̣̱̻̣̍̀̃ͩ̓ͧ̅ͤ͠ !" The sound that came out of him was inhuman; he must have torn his throat screaming, because he couldn't recognize his own voice. All he felt was the pain.

     "Keep him steady!" Tigress called over her shoulder at Connor.

     Even with his super strength, Connor seemed to have difficulty holding him down. The armor was spazzing out, and its strength was quite formidable, and the agonizing pain seemed to make it even stronger.

     But even heroes had their limits, and while the armor had done nothing but enhance Jaime, he was just a teenager. Soon, even with the armor going haywire and keeping him awake, he succumbed to the welcoming void of oblivion; where, surely, the pain would not reach him.

 

    The smell of antiseptic was what woke him. The beeping of the heart monitor to his right must've become background noise during his sleep, for he only took note of it after his mind was awake. The mattress underneath him was too firm, and the sheets too scratchy to be his; and instead of the Texas heat that greeted him in the morning, it was the cool air of a hospital room. His arm felt like a frozen block of ice where the IV was plugged.

    He forced open his eyes, and took in the room rapidly, his heart already beating frantically in his chest. His hand automatically moved to his ear where a comm unit usually was, until he realized that he was in the Watchtower infirmary. Lowering his hand, he noticed his back was to a wall, and to his left, on the far side of the room, was a floor-to-ceiling window. It was blacked out for privacy, he imagined. He could see the door, a blaring red light over it indicating it was locked to unauthorized people. And not too far on his right was Connor sleeping in a chair.

    "You're awake," Connor said, just before he opened his eyes and looked up. Standing up and stretching, he said, "You've been out for a whole day-" 

    A whole day?! What had happened? Where were the others? How many were injured, or worse? A whole day meant he'd been seriously knocked out (because he hadn't picked up the bombs), which also meant Jaime had to go back to his house within a few hours, at most, for school the next day- 

    "We were worried about you," finished Connor.

    "I'm... I'm fine," he rasped. Even he could tell his heart skipped a beat when he said those words. Although he hadn't been staring at him, Jaime saw the micro expressions on Connor's face; he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. His hand was toying with the bandage around his IV.

    In the end, Connor asked him, "What happened with the armor?"

    Jaime's mind reeled as he was taken back through his memory - finely kept logs of every minute of every hour of every day, almost fine-combed in his need to double check everything - and he relived those moments. It had been exactly one minute and twenty-seven seconds of manic, desperate confusion, and pain; yet it had felt like hours when he'd been screaming his lungs out. He was surprised he could talk right now.

    Connor was looking at him with a mixture of expectancy and confusion.

    Oh. Right, he'd been talking to Jaime (to him). "It's plugged into my spine," he said, like that explained everything, while he flezed his hand, hoping to get some feeling back, some warmth into the arm with the IV. After a moment of silence, he felt the need to add, "It's like an extension of me; something breaks..." he let the sentence hang.

    Connor grunted, though his face looked sympathetic. The broken antennae had felt like nothing short of having an appendage torn off; wrenching tendons and veins along with it.

    This time, it was Jaime who asked a question. "What happened after-"

    "-After you passed out? Artemis-" Connor cut him off, but Jaime spoke over him.

    "No. After I fucking missed the explosives! Connor, what happened because I wasn't paying attention?" he snapped, his voice gaining a hard edge. He had to know; yet he dreaded every micro-second that would lead up to Connor's answer. What if they were the only uninjured ones? What if Deathstroke had somehow maimed or hurt everyone else on the team because Jaime had been incompetent?

    Connor looked at him. He was worried, and Jaime could tell he was figuring out the best way to say it wasn't your fault (except that it was). "It was a home-brew,  Jaime. Even detectors made especially for that wouldn't have picked them up..."

    Jaime harrumphed, unconvinced. "What happened," he asked in a deadpan voice, fiddling with his IV tube.

    Connor sighed, and sat on the edge of Jaime's bed - exactly five inches and six-eighths from his leg - and seemed to be mulling over things. "Artemis and Nightwing rallied the other squads to our position and helped take out Deathstroke's goons."

    "And he escaped," Jaime surmised.

    "With the prototype," Connor added. "But we're questioning the other ones." A lengthy pause, then, "Listen, Jaime... it wasn't your fault, man. I didn't smell them, didn't see them, didn't hear the detonator go off, or even Deathstroke approaching. If anything, it was my fault too, you know?"

    Jaime did know. And even if he felt inclined to share that belief, he couldn't blame Connor. It was Jaime's own complacency and failure to react appropriately that had caused them this loss. He'd already sworn to himself that he wouldn't be a liability like this. Connor might have super-senses, but what he didn't have was a supercomputer able to run every background check known to man and alien while you walked the length of a room.

    Whatever Connor said, the simple fact that it boiled down to was this: Jaime had failed.

    "What's the chemical composition of the explosive?" he asked, looking around for water. His hand had clasped around the tube plugged into his arm. It was an IV made to keep him hydrated. He imagined they wouldn't know how long his coma could have lasted. "Get a nurse to take this out."

    "Uh," was the first thing that Connor said. "Sure." He clicked on a button on a remote attached to the bed. "As for the explosives, I don't know what they were. You'd have to wait for the lab results. Why?"

    "If I know what it is, I'll be able to catch it next time and avoid this fucking mess," he muttered, looking at the still-darkened window.

    Connor sighed, but before he could say anything, a male nurse walked in with a doctor. He had brought along a pitcher of ice water and a plastic cup.

    the doctor tried to exchange pleasantries with Jaime, but he didn't feel like much of a talker after his conversation with Connor. Jaime replied exactly five times with monosyllabic replies, while he watched the nurse begin the process of removing the IV

    Jaime could tell he was being a poor patient; his entire arm was stiff as a board. His muscles were flexed to the point his veins were popping out, but he couldn't help it, not knowing the nurse and all. Finally, the thin plastic tube was taken out of his arm, and the doctor spoke while Jaime applied pressure to the hole.

    "You've given your friends quite a scare," she said, with a crooked smile.

    "Happens in our line of work, ma'am," Jaime replied, looking longingly at the water. A few more minutes of pressing on his wound.

    Well, he could quicken the process a bit; his head buzzed lightly as he felt the small relief of pain around the crook of his elbow as the armor got to work fixing his vein and skin. For such a minor wound, it would almost already be fully healed.

    He poured himself a glass of water, and after briefly confirming it was safe to drink, took a long swig of it.

    "Yes, well, try to refrain from breaking parts that aren't your body," she joked, looking at his medical file. "We didn't even know what to do except prescribe painkillers; to be completely honest. It seemed your... power had induced a coma, but your heartrate was still elevated due to the pain." She went on to explain that even comatose, moving him was very difficult as he kept thrashing around unless very specific people were handling him.

    Probably bioscans to confirm who was touching me while unconscious, he thought. It was a useful defense mechanism, as it would actually deter any dedicated kidnapper and buy some time.

    "Anyway, we'd like to run a few tests to make sure everything is in working order, and then we'll-"

    "Everything is in working order," he told her, downing his second cup of water.

    As he moved to stand, Connor held him in place with a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, man, just let the doctor run her tests, you've done this before."

    "Yeah," he said. "And the Scarab, you know the alien A.I. grafted into my spine that is all-powerful and more knowledgeable than all of us combined, is telling me everything is in working order." He was getting irritated. He wanted to get out; there were too many people talking to him, making noises and there might be more behind that darkened glass (there wasn't, he quickly learned, but still).

    He shrugged off Connor's hand, and got off the bed.

    "Uh, still," the doctor said, flustered at being shrugged off. "We'd like to double-check, who knows, we might find something."

    "Listen, if you could find anything that would have passed undetected until now, I wouldn't be trying to leave." He looked around until he found a spare set of clothes in a bag by the chair Connor had been sleeping in.

    Luckily, he was still wearing his underwear. Jaime changed right then and there.

    "I have to get back home, I have school tomorrow," he told them, and briskly walked out of the room.

    The hallway was empty, as his previous scan had told him, and he could see multiple rooms like his - the empty ones had lighted windows, and the occupied ones were darkened, except for a few. His steps echoed on the cold metal floor, and the only other accompanying sounds were the air filtration systems as he walked.

    He picked up sonic vibrations against the glass of his room as he left. Connor was worried about him.

 

    Artemis was waiting for him behind the door of the Medbay. She was still wearing her uniform, except for the mask. She was pissed; a deep-set frown on her face, and Jaime knew her core temperature was elevated by the sheer anger. Her arms were crossed and she leaned against the wall; able to see both doors easily; and ready to push off in case she had to move.

    "I fucking told you," she bit out, "to watch your fucking back."

    He was surprised. Whenever they had talked before - after he let Wally cease to exist - the exchange was always difficult; her being curt, and blunt, while he was awkward and stammering. She hadn't really talked to him long enough to get mad. But what surprised him more than her emoting with him, was that she hadn't gotten angry at him sooner.

    "I, uh," he began, his palms beginning to sweat. For some reason, he could never stand up to her; damn it! Even Connor was stepping on eggshells around him, why couldn't she? "Didn't detect the explosives. I was heading to the lab to find out what they're made of so it won't happen again."

    "I told you... You're sluggish, Reyes. Walk into an engineering firm, knowing there's gonna be explosives and you don't scan for chemicals around you?"

    "I... no," he said. He knew he fucked up, and it wouldn't happen again; at least someone else could see that. It's not like she was cajoling him, like Connor had tried to do. "Just a general scan. Won't happen again."

    Speaking of which, he scanned to see if Connor was coming. Not yet, it seemed.

    "What the fuck?" she demanded, pushing off the wall. "Whenever you fuck up, it's your teammates' lives you put at risk." She got in his face. "You can't afford to forget that. Least of all of us."

    He looked down, ashamed. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't relive that fateful event. He'd been too slow, too unprepared, and Wally - Artemis' boyfriend, and a retired hero - had literally ceased to be. He'd singlehandedly destroyed her civilian life. "I-I won't... Never again," he replied, his voice still husky from his screaming a day ago.

    "I'll hold you to that, Reyes," she said in a low voice, before stepping back and marching away to who knew where. Jaime didn't try to figure it out.

    He headed for the labs. As he walked, he took out his cellphone from his pocket and texted his parents. As expected, he had multiple messages - and even a few missed calls - from his family. He mass-texted them.

|Jaime: I'm fine, just had a late night. I'm losing my voice so please don't call, I'll be home in 25mins.

    Nightwing was in the lab, and as the door slid open, Jaime said, "Hey, yes I'm fine, no I don't wanna talk about it, and I need to know what was the composition of the explosives for future reference."

    "Uh, okay..." Nightwing replied, pulling up a hologram of the formula so Jaime could scan it. "Listen-" he started, but Jaime cut him off as politely as he could in his irritated state.

    "I appreciate it, boss, but if one more person tells me it wasn't my fault, I think I will literally explode."

    "Noted, but that's not what I was gonna say," Nightwing replied with a slightly amused smirk that was wiped off as he continued speaking. "Why don't you take it easy for a few days, have The Posse handle El Paso while you rest up a bit?"

    "I'll think about it," Jaime replied, not at all thinking about it; too focused on the formula in front of him. "I should have been able to detect this already... what the f-"

    "Language," Nightwing chided gently, smirking again.

    "-formula could go undetected by my scans?" he finished lamely. So what if he swore? And damn wasn't a swear, but fuck was? "Anyway. It won't happen again, I'll be ready next time," he said, with such certainty that Nightwing couldn't help but believe him.

    "Glad to hear it, but really, I'm wondering why Deathstroke took your broken antenna," he mumbled distractedly.

    "What?!" Jaime said. He hadn't known that, no one had told him! Fucking Connor, this was useful information! "What do you mean? Deathstroke didn't just come for the tank? He wasn't just trying to immobilize me to reach the tank?"

    "Arguably Superboy and Impulse could pose a similar, if not bigger threat," he replied, shaking his head. "Besides, when Artemis and I fought him, he didn't seem too bothered by the tank until he collected your broken off antenna. Why he wanted it though, we're not sure yet."

    Jaime had a bad feeling; his mind immediately conjuring up images of being stuck in his body once more, unable to control his actions. His thoughts, again, nothing more than quiet complaints stuck inside a killing machine.

    He must've zoned out, because when he came to, someone was touching Jaime's shoulder - that is, someone was touching his shoulder. Nightwing was; his hand was on his shoulder.

    "... I don't think any tech we have could control you and the scarab unless they use telepathy," he was just finishing a sentence Jaime hadn't heard. "And, well, we all know how to break out, or break a friend out of it. I wouldn't worry," he said.

    Except Jaime could tell Nightwing was bothered. Jaime's head buzzed almost painfully as he tried not to hold his breath. Breathe in, breathe out. That's in; two in, three out, he told himself.

    "I suppose so," was his reply. "I have to get home, Ma and Pa are waiting. See you soon," he told Nightwing as he left the lab.

 

    Both of his parents and his sister were home by the time he arrived; it was late afternoon, almost evening, and his shadow was long as he walked from a nearby park to his house. They were all sitting in the living room, with Milgaro lying down on the floor doing homework.

    "Ah, mijo," she said, standing up to give him a hug. 

    He awkwardly hugged her back as he made sure everything was alright; the stove was left on, but the temperature was relatively low, and the rest of the house was empty. "Hey Ma," he said in his raspy voice.

    "Ooh! Jaime sounds like that guy in that Batman movie!" Milagro said. "His voice is all weird."

    "Losing my voice," he said, heading to the kitchen for some water.

    "You were asleep this late?" his mother called out to him from the living room. "What happened?"

    "Nothing much-" he drank at least two glasses before taking one with him to the living room; keeping his eyes on the windows- "Did some homework, played video games..."

    "I told your mother not to worry," his father said, flicking the channel.

    "Me? Uh hun! You were pacing the length of the living room until he texted us, I thought you'd wear down the floorboards!"

    His father chuckled good-heartedly while he suddenly became engrossed in what was playing on the television - an infomercial about a ridiculously durable non-stick pan.

    They soon moved to the dining room in the kitchen. Jaime grabbed his now usual seat by the wall, the window and the living room both visible from this spot. Supper was laid out before them, his mother's chili, and on reflex he found himself scanning it for alien substances. He caught himself, and mentally scolded his lack of trust in his own mother before eating a spoonful slowly.

    He hadn't been hungry lately, but after his impromptu coma, and his stress levels being what they were, he knew he had to have something in his stomach. 

    Dinner was a mostly silent affair, aside from a few questions like if he had fun or the like, which was fine by him. He found that the television in the living room provided enough unwelcome noise.

    He went to his room soon after - having done the dishes himself, for fear they'd cut themselves on the knives in the water - and stayed there until the next day. The first thing he'd done after checking that the window was still locked, was to root through everything, as he usually did whenever he came back home.

    He looked through his desk, double-checking his homework along the way - part of him wondering if, sometimes, he was really the one writing or if the scarab took over for some technical writing and he never noticed - and when he put every paper back in its place, he moved onto his dresser. His clothes were exactly as he'd left them, folded in the special fashion of his - anybody rooting through his stuff would disturb the folds and he would know - and they were still in the same order he'd left them. He then changed the order in which his shirts and pants were piled into his dresser drawers.

    Checking under his mattress - it was already on the floor as Jaime had gotten rid of the bedframe because it made him feel unsafe - to make sure it wasn't bugged or anything, he felt a little relief wash over him.

    His room was clean now.

    The meals for this school week were already packed, his clothes laid out and picked out, and his homework was done. He couldn't go on patrol right now - his parents were awake, and felt strangely tired.

    Jaime eyed the bottle of sleeping pills on his desk warily. He wasn't sure why he kept them if he never used them - but he knew you could tell a lot from one person's trash, and he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone else to know about this.

    Maybe he should put off patrolling El Paso for a few days; analyze the formula Nightwing had given him, and find any variations of it - and come to think of it, what the hell he'd been sprayed with that had left him on his knees.

    Taking out his phone, he sent a quick text.

|Jaime: Any idea what DT sprayed me with?

|N: Knowing him... prolly sum kind of pepper spray he modded. Y, u feel ok?

|Jaime: Okay thanks.

    Well, if the armor could fly into space, he supposed he could come up with a protection for something so stupid. But in the back of his mind, he worried; what if it had been a specially-made weapon? What if Deathstroke knew of a weakness in the armor, that even Jaime didn't?  However unlikely that was, he kept the possibility in mind.

    But right now, he had a formula to analyze. It was wonderful, sometimes, what he could do with the armor; he was his own lab - well, at least a simulation of it - and he ran simulations of different combinations of different products until he'd gone through any sensible reactant. He didn't bother with chemical ingredients that wouldn't affect the ones already in the formula - he was paranoid, not hyperfixated.

    All the while he wore his helmet to see the varying results and commit them to the armor's memory. It also made scanning for any passersby to his room much easier since he could practically see through the wall, and be ready to power down the armor if need be. Still, no one came, not until it was Milagro's bedtime and she came to give Jaime a goodnight hug.

    He stayed sitting on his bed, his back to the wall so he could see his locked window and closed door. He was done everything, and was now only stewing over what had happened this past weekend. How everything had gone to shit because of him.

    If he'd fucking caught the explosives, or had picked up Deathstroke's heat signature or something, then they might have stopped him from taking the suit. And his antennae. Why did Deathstroke want it? As far as Jaime was aware, the man was proud but not the kind to take trophies - and even if he'd been, Jaime doubted it had been a trophy-worthy fight.

    His head ached as thoughts buzzed around in it.

    The door to his room creaked open and, startled, he stood to meet whoever was there. Artemis stepped inside. They had a guest, but his parents hadn't warned him about her being at the door. And at this time of night?

    She must've broken in - picked the lock, probably. But then why not enter through his window?

    "Uh, hey," he whispered, or tried to, as his mouth started burning. He coughed.

    "You know," she said coldly, taking a step forward and the door shut with a bang behind her. He winced. That would definitely wake his family, but before he could tell her to be careful, she continued. "Connor was right."

    Right about what? he wondered, but his face only started hurting more. It felt like he'd been sprayed again, but Artemis hadn't lifted a finger.

    "It wasn't your fault," she said, and he suddenly became aware of the fact she was wearing Deathstroke's armor. She grabbed his antenna - so it had grown back already? Wait, when had he suited up? - and she snapped it off like a twig.

    He screamed, but it felt like someone had shoved hot sand in his mouth; his throat burning, only a weak rasp coming out.

    "You're just sluggish," she continued, breaking off his other antennae. "Can't even watch your own back." She snapped off another piece of his armor; his body exploding in pain, like lava spewing out of a mountainside as she continued to tear off pieces of his armor. He was paralyzed by pain and fear.

    "Unprepared." Snap! "Afraid." Snap! "It wasn't your fault, really." Snap! Snap! "Even Wally's death..." She cracked open his helmet and he felt like his skin was being torn apart, shattering bone and yanking them through his flesh. "Even though you murdered him!" Her nails dug into the last piece of his armor, the chest piece, and he felt her draw blood from the skin underneath. "I don't blame you," she whispered. "I'm just punishing you..." And she snapped the piece apart, flaying his skin as she tore it off. 

    She wasn't done though, because she forced her fingers into his skin, digging between his ribs for purchase and he felt it - felt her fingers rattling against his bones with every hitch of his breath. Then, she grabbed onto them; her nails breaking into the bones.

    "You're not good enough, Jaime," she said, and she started pulling. She kept pulling despite the fact that he was already emptied of blood and that she should not have been able to hurt him anymore. But it hurt. He agonized, as he felt them, one by one, his ribs snapping off from his sternum. And then she broke his ribcage open like he was nothing more than poultry.

    She reached a cold, steady hand into his innards. "No, you're not good enough..." she continued, and he looked at her face, and it was the face from his nightmares.

    Her skin was flushed, yet sickly pale, cold - and ugly - frost-bitten tear tracks marringher cheeks. Her lips were blue, almost indigo. But what really terrified him were her eyes. They weren't angry, or outraged, as they should have been; there wasn't even a cold rage and pain to them. They were devoid of anything human. Uncharacteristically dark, yet he saw to the bottom of them, and he felt what she felt; the loss, and pain he'd caused. "You weren't good enough," she said, and he felt her fingers clasp around his heart, squeezing tightly enough to stop it from beating. "And you still aren't, but..."

    She leaned in to whisper against his ear, and he felt ice crystals form over his skin. Her breath was cold and wet, and he felt disgusting. "But we can use you," Deathstroke's voice whispered, as she ripped out his heart, pulling everything that was Jaime Reyes out with it.

    He fell forward and screamed.

    Opening his eyes, he found himself kneeling on his floor panting and shaking. Sweat and tears dripped from his face - his hair matted to his skull. Shakily, he scrambled back until his back hit the wall. Unsettled, he shifted until he sat in the corner - the door next to him, he reached the handle and locked it despite his mother's various warnings of fire safety.

    He wept.

 

    Jaime didn't sleep for several days. His migraine gradually becomingworse until he couldn't concentrate long enough to take coherent notes, the intense buzzing making his eyes water at times. It was like someone had shoved a hornets' nest and crying cicadas between his temples.

    Following his schedule to the tiniest detail made the time pass by infinitesimally quicker. He'd already prepared his meals since last Friday, but he double-checked them for any toxins or pills or substances that hadn't been there before. He walked to each class, staying close to the wall to protect himself from any surprise attacks. He sat in the back of each classroom, making sure he was able to see and hear everything - and he couldn't possibly fall asleep there when even the scratching of a pencil on paper of the person next to him was like nails upon a chalkboard.

    Fuck, why couldn't everyone just be fucking quiet?

    He took his frustrations out on any two-bit crook that crossed his path, which admittedly weren't all that many, considering he could barely fly straight without the aid of the Scarab now. Still, every time he threw one of those losers in a dumpster - despite the heart-stoppingly loud clang of the lid - he felt better about himself for a moment. At least Blue Beetle was out helping people, even if only a little bit.

    And in every instant of free time he had, he ran tests with chemicals (he had to make sure he knew everything there was to know about Deathstroke's explosives), double-checked the findings of the team relating to the thefts, and thought; thought about his incompetence, thought about what could have been avoided if he hadn't fallen prey to Deathstroke, thought about what he needed to do so it wouldn't happen again.

    Because it wouldn't happen again. He was going to make damn sure of that. He'd die before he'd be the weak link ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

    "Did you hear what happened yesterday?" one of the students next to Jaime said - some guy on the soccer team named Jesse - to his friend. He didn't wait for an answer, though, and kept talking. "Wait a sec, I gotta show you!"

    It was Friday morning, 08:13:12, to be precise, and students were just starting to fill their seats before class started. It had been fairly quiet when he came in, early as usual. Now, though, everybody was talking so loudly, and he felt the pain behind his eyes intensify a thousand-fold. It wouldn't be so bad, if only people would _shut up_ ; or even if they whispered. But no, everybody had to talk loudly, like some apes in a screaming contest. He could hear the conversation on the other end of the room, for god's sake!

    He felt like he was eavesdropping on everybody. Hell, he knew Brad had cheated on Sadie with Rebecca, but she hadn't known he was in a relationship and now the two girls were trying to get back at him. Jaime didn't even know a Brad! Seriously, who named their children _Brad_  in this day and age? did the parents want their kid to grow up to be an asshole, or something?

    Anyway. Jesse's friend had apparently not seen whatever Jesse was yammering on about. If Jaime had been able to, he'd tune out their conversation (and the rest of the class') and go to sleep. Seemed he had to settle with laying head down on the desk, screwing his eyes shut. Not that it did much, and even covering his head with his arms did little to muffle the sound. He could almost _feel_  Stacy's heat signature, five rows ahead, as she gossiped with her friend Hanna about some new movie.

    Was this his life now?

    "Here. Lemme show you," Jesse said, sounding both exasperated and excited. Without looking, Jaime could tell he lifted his phone for the other to see, and as the audio began playing, Jaime blanched.

    _Oh no_. It had made it all the way to social media? He'd expected a five-minute segment on the six o'clock news, maybe, and some YouTube videos with maybe a few hundred views each while the comments were littered with complaints over the quality. But, really, he should have expected better, being a sort-of-local-celebrity and all. Obviously Blue Beetle would not go unnoticed around here.

    "She's not his cousin, _she's my friend!_ " He heard a girl's voice coming from the speaker. A few students turned around to look; the scrape of chairs on the floor indicating a few had come to see.

    While everybody wanted a look at what was happening on-screen, Jaime wanted nothing more than to forget. Or maybe erase the entire thing from existence; but that was nothing more than a pipe dream.

    As Jesse had said, it happened yesterday. It had been pretty late, where regular teens came back home for curfew and young adults started going out clubbing; 23:17:25, his inner clock supplied, is when it officially began. Jaime had been patrolling overhead the city, just high enough that the wind covered the ruckus of the streets, but low enough that he could easily tell what was happening with a simple scan. He had been looking for some action, the prior weeks' events tightening a coil in his core that needed release; but what he found was somehow both more, and less, than what he expected. Or needed.

    While towns like El Paso didn't really have a "Red Light District" anymore, needless to say that some areas were seedier than others, even if not by much. Jaime had been patrolling the part of town were most bars and clubs were located; at that time of night, thrumming with life and booze. Trouble was bound to happen.

    It really started, as his clock had indicated, when a certain man came out from a club - _Karma_  blazed in bright blue neon (which actually uses Argon to make the blue light). He had a girl on his arm, though she wasn't very responsive; Jaime wasn't sure what made him glance in that direction, at that time; but he'd been spending all night thinking about it (and what happened afterwards). He'd been tempted to keep on flying; after all, many people came back home with drunken friends, but he saw _another_ girl - the one in the beginning of Jesse's video - come out the club after them.

    He touched down. People stared, the girl stopped - although he had been heroing for over a year now, people still pointed and stared wherever he went. Though sometimes the stares were less than pleasant, to say the least. Jaime approached the man in what he believed to be a casual manner.

    "Everything okay?" he asked, genuine concern lacing his words. He offered a hand to the man, who refused, taking the time to launch a micro-beetle onto the girl - a little trick Nightwing had taught him. Not the micro beetles - he found out about those when he tried to remove the scarab from his spine; no, sending trackers on people.

    "Hm? Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah! It's just, my cousin-" he motioned to the nearly blacked-out girl hanging on his arm- "she's just had a bad break-up and I wanted to help her feel better. Well." He chuckled nervously. "You can see how it went." His heartbeat was elevated, as well as his body heat - probable side-effects of seeing a real-life hero, and being in a crowded place. From his breath, he could tell his blood alcohol level was pretty low (between 0.03 and 0.05, he hadn't actually given the guy a Breathalyzer, and had just analyzed the air coming from his mouth). 

    "Yeah... It just looks suspicious, okay? A guy, leaving the club with a drunken girl," Jaime replied, raising a brow. An alert came up in the armor's HUD; the girl had been drugged with roofies. "Especially when she's been drugged."

    The man didn't have the decency to even pale when Jaime revealed he knew.

    The other girl, who Jaime would learn her name was Emily, came forward. "She's not his cousin, _she's my friend!_ " she told Jaime.

    _Now,_  the man had look affronted. "Lady, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And, Mr. Beetle-"

    "- Blue Beetle, actually," Jaime interrupted him.

    The man continued as if he hadn't said anything: "I know exactly how it looks, and trust me when I say that if I find who drugged my cousin, I will personally smash his face in with a bat!' Had Jaime not been monitoring the man, he'd be tempted to believe him. "And are you seriously going to believe this _stranger_ , here, dressed like a cheap whore? For all you know, she's trying to drag my cousin back to some pimp!"

    "Why, you!" Emily ground out. She looked through her purse rapidly, pulling out two driver's licenses - she had been carrying her and the drugged girl's wallets it seemed - and nearly shoved them in Blue's face. "See! That's _her_ , right there: Shelby Joneses. And that's me: Emily Rolfe! She's my friend, and I-"

    "I know, I know," he told her. He'd been trying to give the guy a chance, but it seemed he was unapologetic in what he was doing. Jaime took a few steps towards the man, who, finally, grew pale. _Finally, some damn respect; did he really think I'd let him get away with this?_  Jaime grumbled mentally. "Alright, listen..." he paused, as facial recognition software scanned the man's face. It didn't come up blank, unfortunately for him: Philip Holt, a government employee, with an expunged criminal file - Jaime didn't quite know why it had been expunged, because the couple of sentences were related to sexual misconducts. "Listen, Mr. Holt, if I were you I'd let Ms. Joneses go before this gets any worse for you."

    Philip Holt looked around rapidly, seeming to weight his options. He must've known he couldn't run, because the next thing he did was say, in whispered tones: "Let me cut you a deal, Blue Beetle... I can get you a lot of money, more than this tramp is worth. No need to make so much fuss about a nobody like this."

    Jaime saw red.

    The next thing he knew, he had his hand clutched around the man's throat. Philip was clawing at Blue's armored arm and hand uselessly; Blue gently plucked the girl from his side and pushed her into Emily's arms. "Go." he told her, as he threw the man to the ground. His elbow shattered upon impact with the concrete.

    "I know scum like you, Philip Holt, who think they're entitled to everyone and everything. You think you can buy someone? That you somehow have the power, or the _right_  to do something like that?!"  Jaime grabbed Holt by the collar and yanked him up, his feet dangling above the ground. "You don't even care how much you can destroy one person's life, do you?"

    "I care, I really care! Please, let me go!" Philip whimpered. His suit was rumpled, and his otherwise handsome face was stained with tears and blood. He'd bitten his lip as he landed and broken his elbow. "I-I swear I won't do it again! P-Please!"

    Blue growled, disgusted with him, and tossed him into the nearest dumpster, several feet away. Final diagnosis had revealed to Jaime that Philip Holt had suffered a shattered elbow joint, three cracked ribs, a concussion, and a twisted ankle from being thrown into - and having tried to get out of - a dumpster.

    "You," Blue pointed to the person who had filmed the video Jesse was showing his classmates. "Call an ambulance, and the police, okay?"

    Blue Beetle left the scene.

 

    "Holy shit, is that dude okay?" Jesse's friend, Max, said; pulling Jaime from his memory. "I mean, he deserves it, but _damn_ -" he whistled- "I never heard of ole' Blue going postal like that."

    A few of the surrounding students, who had crowded around Jesse to watch the video, nodded and mumbled their agreements. Jaime sighed inwardly, he'd worked hard at carving out a good, nice reputation for himself - he wasn't like Batman, all scary-like. Jaime was just a young man, trying to do good, and make people feel better. Not scare them; Jaime had just been out of patience, on edge.

    At least he took care of the crime; and let off a little steam, even if he made the news in doing so.

    There was still more or less ten minutes before the class would start, and Jaime spent it actively trying to tune out the chatter around him. Being reminded one time of yesterday was enough for him.

     8:30 am finally came around, and he was sitting in class in the back corner where he could look out the window as well as keep an eye on the door located at the front of the room.

     11:45 am he ate lunch outside - Friday meant ham sandwich - his back pressed up against the northern brick side of the school, where the least number of students hung out. 

     3:05 pm the bell rang releasing him from the torture of the day that he forced himself to endure day in and day out because he was still trying to find some normality; and failing miserably at it.

    As soon as he got home, Jaime went immediately into his "prep time" portion of the day. Jaime had been as obsessive with his cleanliness and organization as ever, but even now he felt he could go over things again. and again, and again, and...

    Supper was going to be ready in forty-five minutes or so. He should stop. He should go up to his room and make sure nobody went through his stuff; that's what he should do. And then he should pretend to sleep, because that's what normal people did to rest - sleep, though, not _pretending_  to sleep - and Nightwing had told him to rest up.

    Which Jaime had not been doing; he'd been patrolling and putting criminals in jail (or the hospital).

    The rest of the evening went mostly according to plan - actually, it went completely according to plan, because Jaime had learned to include some variables in his at-home life, like Milgaro knocking a glass off the table by accident. He hadn't expected his reaction to the _noise_ , though.

    Gasping, he stood up so quickly it almost threw back the chair he had been sitting in. "I'll go get the broom," he quickly said, heading for the broom closet just under the stairs. Once out of sight, he let out a shuddering sigh. He took a few seconds to steady his breathing; it was safe. It had just been Milagro dropping a glass - he'd known it could happen, and there were no other lifeforms in the house but his family - _so calm down,_  he told himself, finally grabbing the broom and heading back to the kitchen.

    He ignored the somewhat concerned looks his parents threw him as he swept the shards into the dustpan. Eventually he sat back down, and finally allowed himself to face them.

    "What? I was worried she might cut herself," he said, and shoved a forkful of lasagna into his mouth.

 

    Saturday morning came soon enough, and by then Jaime had organized all his outfits for the week - assuming he wouldn't fuck up on patrol or on a mission (he _wouldn't_ ) and spent a few nights in the infirmary. He put on jeans, an old shirt and his hoodie on before heading downstairs to tell his father.

    As usual, he was sitting at the table, up before the rest of the family, drinking his black coffee and reading the paper. Jaime had barely been downstairs for a minute or two when Milagro came barreling into the kitchen - completely shattering the calm, quiet atmosphere, but he had been keeping an eye on her, and he was able to brace himself against the sudden noise and stimuli.

    He prepared himself for the usual morning conversation of "Dad, I'm going to a friend." "Which friend?" "Connor." (or Bart, or Cassie, or whoever else). "You have your phone?" "Yes." "Have fun."

    But of course, Milagro only listened when Dad said "Have fun," as if she didn't already know Jaime was leaving.

     "Where're you going?" she asked, much too loudly; he cringed. How could she have so much energy in the morning, and why was she being so damn noisy?

     "To a friend's," he replied.

     "Who?"

     "Connor's," he replied quickly. Did it matter? All his friends were in the same place!

     "Can I-"

     "No."

     "Aw! Bu-"

     " _No_."

     "Come _on_!" she whined. "I haven't seen any of your friends in _forever_ , they never visit!"

      _I don't invite them over_. "Maybe next time," he told her, patting her head quickly and exiting. "Later!"

     "Have fun at Connor's!" his father called back, even though he'd already said that.

    Jaime was beginning to have deja-vu. Which, all the better; it just meant his routine was taking hold. It made him feel better a bit.

    He headed out, and as soon as he was out of sight from the few people out and about this time of day, he armored up. The zeta beams quickly transported him to the Watchtower - somehow being both the safest, and the most dangerous places he knew of.

    "B-Twenty-Two: Blue Beetle," the digitized voice announced, as he felt his atoms scramble back together.

    Blue let go of a breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding. Here, he could finally do some good, and didn't have to watch his back 24/7 - he still did, mostly, just for peace of mind.

    Jaime stepped off the entrance pad, waved at one of the technicians - Laney, her nametag read; employed at the Watchtower for three years, her online file informed him - and walked the mostly silent halls towards the Team's quarters. It was funny to Jaime, how much the tower resembled a school: most people were either in the cafeteria, the gym, or doing work (which he equated to studying for the sake of his mental simile).

    And so, the halls were mostly empty and quiet, but that didn't stop Jaime from sidling the wall nearly the entire way. He just _couldn't_  stay too close to the windows looking out into space; he'd been thoroughly terrified of the vast expanse of nothingness ever since Arsenal had opened the doors when he went under Reach control. It squicked him to be in the Watchtower halls.

    He knew someone was around the next corner before he turned, seeing their heat signature. Jaime slowed to a stop when he saw Nightwing standing there with his arms crossed. He didn't look too pleased, though it was always hard to tell with him unless he was smirking.

    "Hey," Jaime said, with a quick nod. "Everything okay, or are you just waiting on someone?"

    "He just showed up," Nightwing replied, and Jaime was both relieved that he didn't sound angry, and worried that _Nightwing_  had been waiting for _him_.

    Checking his clock, Jaime noticed he was early as last time. "Oh? You wanted to spar again? I guess I could use the exercise..."

    Nightwing smirked. "No, actually, I already mopped the floors today," he replied teasingly, before sobering up. "I wanted to talk to you about something, come with me." He motioned for Blue to follow, and led him to one of the meeting rooms.

    The lights flickered to life, and the console by the door started blinking red; it was recording.

    "Computer, cease recording. Delete recording. Access code Nightwing B zero one." Nightwing said, as the door slid closed behind them.

    "Voice recognition confirmed: Nightwing B zero one. Recording stopped. Recording deleted." the digitized voice of the computer replied.

    Jaime was immediately on his guard. Not because he was worried Nightwing would try anything - he was tense, but from stress. his brain was producing cortisol. Whatever it was, it must've been serious enough, to stress _Nightwing_.

    "Sit with me," Nightwing said, taking a seat and making a stellar job of appearing relaxed.

    Jaime sat, noticeably less relaxed.

    "I heard you went out patrolling," he said casually.

    "I did." And Jaime already knew what this was about.

    Nightwing nodded, seeming to understand. "You stopped what could've been something terrible."

    "Just doing my job."

    "You didn't need to hospitalize him, Jaime," Nightwing replied, cutting to the chase. "And since you're not someone who's usually so... physical."

    Jaime had the urge to smack him; what was the problem, again? He'd stopped a rape, and sure, he sent the guy to the hospital a little; but Jaime was already beating himself up for it. He hadn't stopped thinking of the guy - Philip's - bones crunching under his grip. Jaime shuddered.

    With a suffering sigh, he simply said: "I know, I just... saw red. He tried to _pay_  me, you can't say he was making it easy to _not_  hit him."

    "Oh, I'm not saying he didn't deserve it. I was just so surprised when Artemis showed me the video. You're usually so... nice. Is everything okay?"

    That was a loaded question, with a deceptively simple answer: no. "Yeah...?" he instead replied. "I just... don't have much compassion for people who try to take your ability to choose away from you."

    Nightwing nodded somberly; Jaime was hoping he believed him - he hadn't exactly _lied_ , just had omitted to say how exhausted and constantly on edge he was. He hoped Nightwing believed him, but couldn't be sure, who _could_  be when he had been trained by Batman himself?

    He stood up, Jaime following suit. Once outside, he told Jaime to meet up at the usual time and place for briefing.

    Walking away, he added, "Just be careful, okay? You're a sweet kid, Jaime." _don't change that_ , Jaime could imagine him saying.

    Maybe Nightwing hadn't believed him after all.

 

    Needing to clear his mind a bit, Jaime headed to the Team's designated training areas, taking care to make the long way around. He didn't feel like talking to anyone else, especially if there was a chance they knew about his _overzealous_  intervention Thursday night.

    After all, Artemis had known. As a matter of fact, she'd been the one who showed Nightwing the video - why was she following his hashtag on Instagram anyways? Maybe she followed the #streetjustice one. If she knew, then maybe the rest of the team knew, or they could find out.

    He'd rather do something productive and relax before that discussion came along. But it seemed he wouldn't get a chance to, even before he reached the gym.

    Artemis was in the training room. She seemed to be waiting by the door; for someone or something to come in, he could see her heat signature, still hot from her training.

    Jaime entered and the armor (almost) moved on its own. He had allowed it a few key protocols to work with, but _he_  was always to be in control, no matter how much the Scarab tried to sway him. It even made Jaime puke once, to stop him.

    Jaime's arm was raised, pointing a light canon at Artemis. Her sword swing had only just missed him. _Here it goes_ , he thought, _the reprimand_.

    "Good." she told, a look of approval within her eyes. "Keep doing what you're doing."

     "Do you mean me dodging," he paused, "or about what I did Thursday night?" he asked, lowering his arm, despite the sudden spike in pain from his headache.

     Artemis didn't reply, and as she sheathed her sword the look of approval disappeared under professional indifference. "Gym's all yours."

     She left him.

     "What the fuck was _that_  about?" he asked to no one in particular, turning to face the empty room. Jaime kept looking back at the entry points on instinct.

     He quickly realized that when he was wearing the armor, there was little here that could offer anything interesting for him. Since he wasn't very acrobatic - usually relying on flying instead of acrobatics - and he didn't feel like running, Jaime settled on doing some weightlifting. He could definitely work on his "heroic silhouette", if not his strength. Besides, right now, he just needed to do _something_ , anything.

     He'd worked up a nice sweat in no time flat, and by the end of his improvised workout session he was feeling the burn in his muscles. Jaime never experienced the "high" so many runners and gym-rats professed to get, but he definitely got the feeling of work well done, along with the blood pumping through sore muscles; that, if anything, did more to satisfy him than any high could.

     Heading to the showers, he took one of the spare outfits there: sweatpants, and a plain navy shirt to change into.

 

     Finally, the time to meet up came around. Jaime had by now been sitting in his usual corner chair, paying attention to anything and everything, for about fifteen minutes; half-replying to Megan's morning chatter, half-trying (and failing) to tune her out. Nightwing walked in, followed by Artemis. The room fell silent.

     He recapped the failed mission weeks prior, explaining whatever new information they had uncovered. Such as the chemical composition of most of Deathstroke's weapons, his explosives, spray, and anti-speedster foam; all of which Jaime had been kept in the loop on, and the information had been safely stored in the armor's databanks. He was certain that next time he'd be able to detect, and counteract, them.

     Then, they discussed protecting the other targets. Perhaps Deathstroke's employer might want the additional tech, except one thing troubled Nightwing about that.

     "Jaime's antennae." he told the team. "Slade's not the type of man to take souvenirs like that. There had to be a reason for him to take it."

     "And until we figure that out," Artemis continued for him. "Jaime will always be teamed up with at least one team vet" By that she meant the original members of the team. Her tone broke no arguments.

     As the room filled with silence, Jaime resisted the urge to sneer. He wasn't a glass figurine, or a fuck-up; and he did _not_  need to be babysat by his teammates. He wouldn't fuck up; and Artemis had told him he'd been doing good, so what was the problem?

     Nightwing spoke up, breaking both the silence and the tense atmosphere. "Artemis and I will lead two squads each on separate missions. These aren't related to the thefts. "Jaime, Connor, and I will be Alpha squad. Robin, La'gaan, and Kid Flash, you're on Beta squad. The rest are with Artemis. Move out."

     As Jaime and the others left, they could hear Artemis' fading voice dividing the other squads. However, as he left, Jaime could have sworn Artemis had been staring right at him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

The mission was simple enough: infiltrate a warehouse/base of operations, beat up the lackeys, capture the boss and put an end to the production of venom. Luckily, Bane wasn't involved in this particular venture.

    Jaime had been teamed up with Connor and Nightwing, which left him feeling a bit slighted. He had basically been put in protective custody with the benefits of still going on missions. He understood the need for him to be under the watchful eyes of one senior member of the team, but two? They must have really thought he was a target, or that he was a hazard. Either way, he felt like they thought of him as weak.

    He wasn't.

    And even if he was (he wasn't), it wouldn't have mattered, the smugglers didn't even have one metahuman with them, and their little (semi-automatic) peashooters could barely tickle his armor. He'd be fine; Nightwing should be the one who was being watched. He wasn't bulletproof.

    But Jaime kept all that to himself, compartmentalized it, and kept it for later - like when they weren't being shot at.

    The smugglers were untrained; lacking even that organized chaos guerilla fighters developed through experience. Instead, they simply bunched up into groups and shot at whatever moved. It made it easy for his team to down a bunch of them out at once with knockout gas from Nightwing and Robin's utility belts. Not only that, but it made it even easier for Connor to simply toss heavy stuff at them; or for Jaime to wrap some up with cables.

  It was this tight, efficient work, that Jaime did for most of the mission; keeping a running tally of how many hostiles there were, and making sure none got away. Between his teammates and himself, everything was running like a well-oiled machine.

        Really, he should have expected something to go wrong, but he was so certain in his preparedness, in his resolve to not fuck up, that, later, he would realize that he had blinded himself. He hadn't been actively worrying; Jaime had been ready, but he hadn't been ready enough.

    While they had been busy rounding up the goons, the leader had hidden away - not ran away, no, because then the police would catch him on their way in. No, he hid and waited, and when he was ready, which Jaime guessed meant 'pumped so full of venom he just looked like a wad of veins and cancer,' he burst through a wall.

    Debris flew everywhere and everyone struggled to keep themselves and the captured smugglers from being hit with concrete and rebar. One second, Jaime was pushing a group of people up against the far wall, the next he was getting clocked in the jaw; a sickening crack! resounding as flesh pounded on metal.

    Jaime's head snapped to the side so hard he got whiplash. Between the surprise, and the sudden pain in his neck and face, he never saw the second hit come. A wild left swing with an arm that was bigger than Jaime's chest nailed him right in the face.

    It was lucky the armor reacted in time; hardening just enough to protect Jaime's skull from being crushed. Blinding pain tore through his head as his nose felt like it had just compacted down into his mouth. He fell backwards, his skull snapping back and smashing into the concrete ground.

    He hadn't been ready, just like last time.

    It seemed no amount of calculations, strategies, or mental preparedness could actually keep him from safe. His breathing came in a shuddering gasp,  and he blinked hard before his sight became unfocused, a thought lost to the past suddenly surfacing.

    He wanted me to tell you... he loved you.

    An enormous, veiny foot stomped down on his chest, driving the wind from his lungs, and Jaime was forced to look at what was currently happening: he was being beaten senseless by some two-bit gang leader hopped up on steroids.

    He wasn't at the North Pole; he wasn't trapped in his own mind, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as events unfolded before him.

    He was in control and he was angry.

    Connor crashed into the man with a roar, sending both of them flying off of Jaime. 

    Nightwing ran over and tried to help him up, but Jaime angrily shrugged off his hand . He had just laid there and taken it as the guy beat him to a pulp.

     Jaime wasn't sure who he was more pissed off with, the junkie or himself. Though if he were honest, he knew it was the latter. he had told himself he was ready. That it wouldn't be like the last fucking time.

    "You alright?" Nightwing asked cautiously.

    "Fine," Jaime snapped, right before he flew straight at the gang leader, ignoring Nightwing's protests. It barely took a second to reach them, at the speed he was going, but it felt like minutes. He was thinking about what he ought to do: tie the man up, or blast him hard enough to knock him out; his goal being something that wasn't too violent.

    Instead, he smashed his fist right into the guy's damn mouth. He felt the crunching of his teeth breaking under his his fingers and the splatter of warm blood along his arm. His hand sank into the guy's broken maw of a mouth, crushing his tongue; saliva mixing in with the now cooling blood on his armor.

    Jaime had tunnel vision; everything around him blurred, and narrowed to a single pinpoint of focus: the bloodied man in front of him.

    He had taken Jaime unawares - he hadn't been ready - but he'd show him. He would fucking show this low-life not to take a superhero by surprise unless you could finish the damn job.

    Otherwise they'd have to finish it for you.

    His left hand reared back, morphing into an energy canon. Powering up, it produced a powerful white light; a shrill humming filling his ears. He was shoving the canon in the guy's face, ready to deal the finishing blow when something crashed into his side, and tackled him to the ground.

    He was so disoriented, because he had thought there was only Connor there--

    Why had Connor stopped him from taking the guy down?

    "Get off of me!" he ground out, struggling under Connor's strong grip.

    "No, man! You're gonna kill him if you don't stop!"

    "I was gonna knock him out!" he defended, convinced of his words.

    Connor growled, something deep like a lion or his mutated wolf, and finally pinned Jaime by the shoulders, straddling him. "I saw that look in your eyes," he gritted out through clenched teeth, partly because of his anger and of the force he had to apply to keep Jaime down. "And if you think your blast was going to do anything less than put him six feet under... after that punch you hit him with... you're fucking crazy."

    Jaime sneered at him. What the fuck? He'd never even think of actually killing someone; that was fucking crazy. Jaime was just obsessed with being safe, prepared, and not a fucking failure. He clenched his teeth, and forced himself to breathe through his nose befpre he stole a glance at the unmoving man.

    He was slumped pathetically against the wall. His face shattered. Pieces of broken teeth dotting his bloodied, slack lips, his torn, swollen tongue lolling out of a mouth whose jaw hung at an unnatural angle. A horrible gurgling, wheezing sound emanated from the smashed ruin of his face with every slow and shallow breath he struggled to take.

    Bile rose up in Jaime's throat, and he tossed off Connor just in time to roll to his side. He heaved and was violently ill, the green bile burning its way up his throat. He shuddered as dry heaves wracked his entire body leaving him shaking and cold.

    "O-Oh god..." he rasped, breath wheezy. "I-I.. I didn't... Fuck. I didn't want to do that."

    "What? Puke or completely smash his face in?" Connor asked, spitting out the last words. "He wasn't a super villain, Blue, just a guy on fucking drugs-"

    "Shut up," Jaime ground out. His throat still burned, and he could feel the slimy residue in the back of his throat. "Just, just shut up, okay? Y-You know what I meant."

    Connor sighed, a short and curt exhale through his nostrils. After barely a moment, he grabbed Jaime's arm to help him up. He wanted to shrug him off, but right now he needed something to ground himself.

    "I was afraid he'd hurt someone," he finally lied, knowing his elevated heartbeat would mask the truth from his friend.

    "We need a med evac a.s.a.p," Nightwing spoke into his comm unit, which Jaime assumed was currently linked to the local authorities and emergency services. "Location is pier nineteen, warehouse fifty-nine. Apprehended suspects-" Nightwing paused to look questioningly at Robin.

    "Twenty-five thugs, plus the ring-leader," Robin replied.

    "Twenty-six. Nightwing out."

    With the help of Connor and Robin, Nightwing moved the injured man into a safe position. "Keep an eye on him," he told Robin. "You-" pointing at Jaime- "with me."

    Jaime didn't think he'd ever seen Nightwing angry. However, he thought this might be what it looked like. He followed him to one of the back rooms - which had all been cleared of hostiles, and traps. Nightwing sat at a computer and began breaking through the password screen.

    "Sit," he told Jaime curtly. "Breathe," he said. Jaime wasn't sure if he was talking to him, or to himself.

    There was a pause, a silence filled with Nightwing's tinkering and fiddling with the locked computer.

    Finally, at long length, Nightwing spoke again. His typing slowed to a stop and he lifted his gaze from the monitor, to rest on Jaime. "Explain, now please."

    "Uh..." he started off stupidly, caught off-guard by the question; then, the armor needlessly replayed what had just transpired. "I... fucked up. Again." He hadn't meant to say that. Jaime had been focusing on being ready and had been trying so hard to be in the zone; and he failed. And now, Nightwing knew.

    Nightwing stared at him.

    "I didn't think... I wasn't ready for it, just like last time. I thought I was prepared, but I-I freaked out when he punched me like that. I wasn't ready," he added again in a small voice, more to himself but loud enough for Nightwing to hear

    "So you broke his face?" The question wasn't meant to be malicious, it was probably just to show Jaime how overkill his reaction had been.

    Gulping, Jaime looked down.

    "It was just a reflex, I didn't... I didn't mean to," Jaime said, hoping it would somehow help to clarify all this mess.

    "Yeah, that's what worries me," Nightwing added in a whisper, looking away as well.

    A few minutes later Nightwing dismissed him. He ignored his friends' questions and stares when they handed the perps over to the authorities as wel las during their return to the Watchtower.

    Jaime noted it was around 0300, El Paso time, on Sunday morning, which meant that Jaime still had some time to kill before he could go home.

    Maybe he could go on patrol, work the beat.

    "Jaime, do you have any plans?" Nightwing asked, hand brushing his elbow but wisely not grabbing it, as they exited the zeta-beams. They all ignored the voice announcing their return.

    "Uh-"

    "Great. I gotta go talk with someone and we'll all meet up in the living room to debrief with Arty's team." Before Jaime could reply with an okay, Nightwing left.

* * *

He went to his room, because even though he wasn't residing in the tower, as a member, he was allocated a room.  He had traded rooms a few times, so his was the very last one in the hall. This suited him just fine, as that meant anyone coming to his room had to pass by multiple other people - like Connor, with his super-hearing -before they reached him. It was like having an extra alarm system. All rooms were outfitted with a lock, each with a different key - either a passcode, or a palm-scan depending on the inhabitant's preference. Jaime had asked for both.

    His room here was even more barren than his one at home. Unlike there, this room did not have furniture at all. A simple mattress with bedding, and if needed, a bag with clean clothes. The doors from the closet had been left permanently open, and the desk had been removed. If Jaime wanted to work at the Watchtower, he would go to the Team's living room.

    He sat on the mattress, back against the wall, and faced the door. There, he had the armor keep a scan going, like a pulse, throughout the surrounding halls. Jaime microslept, four to five seconds at a time; or he tried to.

    Robin had once told him Batman liked to microsleep. If it was good enough for the best of the best, it had to be good enough for Jaime, right? The only problem was that he didn't know what was happening during those seconds and it annoyed him. He didn't feel unsafe, not here, but not knowing felt almost as bad.

    Whatever, he tried to tell himself. As he drifted in and out of sleep, just barely resting enough to avoid dreaming but resting nonetheless, he felt the time pass with deliberate slowness. He let go of a breath that he felt like he'd been holding for weeks The constant tension in his shoulders didn't vanish, but it lessened. Without meaning to, he unclenched his jaw and let his head lean back to rest against the wall behind him.

    A wide yawn  broke through his lips and he blinked his eyes open momentarily. He was tired. He was actually a few steps beyond tired, he was exhausted. What he wouldn't do for some decent sleep... But he couldn't sleep more than a little at a time, and he had debriefing soon, anyway. Microsleeping would have to do.

    He closed his eyes, felt his breath; felt one rumble through his nose in a silent snore, snapping him awake, before the cycle repeated itself, as he rested. His eyes would open every few moments, casting a cursory glance around before he felt the urge to close them once more.

    The next time he opened his eyes was because someone was heading towards his room. The armor had picked up a heat signature at the edge of the hall, and soon alerted Jaime. By the time Robin had reached his door, Jaime was standing. He'd had his hand on the switch as Robin knocked for the first time.

    "Well, that was quick," Robin said, by way of greeting. He shoved a warm cup in Jaime's hands. "This'll help keep your eyes open during debrief, which is in a few minutes. Come on."

    The armor analyzed the contents of the cup as Jaime looked at Robin dumbly. "Uh, how'd you-"

    "-Know? Trust me, I know when someone's burning the midnight oil. I have my own coffee machine back at the cave. Now, come on." he waved at  Jaime to follow him down the hall.

    Jaime sipped the cup of harmless coffee, sugar, and cream mixture  as he followed.

* * *

They were the last two to arrive in the living room, yet both of their usual seats were left open. Jaime put his empty cup on the coffee table and headed towards his chair in the far corner. He felt Artemis and Nightwing's eyes boring into the back of his head as he passed them. He sat in his chair awkwardly, pushing himself into it as far as he'd go, looking out at the room in front of him.

    While they waited, he met the gazes of Bart, Connor, and Robin before he reluctabtly met Nightwing's. He quickly looked away but was caught by the intense stare of Artemis. He wasn't sure if it was a good sign or not that Artemis kept her eyes on him like that.

    For a moment, he was taken back to that nightmare of her he had, or rather, that last nightmare of her. He'd had plenty involving her. Sometimes she was the victim, others she was the persecutir. The latter were never as bad, because he felt that any punishment meted out upon him was well deserved.

    It was the nightmare where Artemis was suffering as she reaped her vengeance upon him that nearly broke him.

    Artemis stared at him, her dead eyes accusing him of his crimes. Jaime's vision suddenly cleared, pulling him from the small trance as the phantom overlay of Artemis' full lips bled from blue to pink.

    Blinking away the image, he noted in the back of his mind that Nightwing was talking about the last mission, but Artemis' attention remained clearly focused upon him.

    Jaime licked his lips nervously, and finally his eyes flitted over to look at his mission leader.

    "When we arrived, they were in the middle of unpacking a shipment, probably to repackage for the local dealers, before sending the rest on its way to the next town," Nightwing explained to the team. The warehouse they had raided had not been one of the drug runners' major entry-points, but the city had been suffering from a plague of venom-related incidents. A lot of the abusers, and incidentally  the victims, were young; teenagers, and young adults. People that were Jaime's age.

    "We managed to capture all the perps, despite... minor complications," Nightwing continued, pausing to give a glance in Jaime's direction; though his head never moved, Jaime had felt his eyes glance at him.

    "It was super gross!" La'gaan said, and gagged for emphasis. "Jaime got decked and curb stomped, and he smashed the guy's face in! I saw bits of tongue flying out!"

    Jaime felt Artemis look at him.

    "... Right." Nightwing deadpanned. He kept talking about the rest of the mission; how many arrests, what was confiscated, etc. But Jaime wasn't listening - he was recording, through the armor, of course, so he allowed himself to be preoccupied by something else.

    Artemis; wasn't looking at him like he was a threat, he realized, but more like she was evaluating him; and from the looks of her face, she had come to a result. Jaime could detect the faintest ghost of a scowl on her lips, barely pulling at the corner of her mouth. He could tell, her eyebrows, usually knit together in a mix of annoyance, exhaustion, and cold professionalism; were drawn together the slightest bit more.

    Jaime gulped, a dry lump forming in his throat. Now tenser than ever,  he tuned back into the conversation, but he saw from the corner of his eye that she had shifted her focus to Nightwing.

    "Well, that's pretty much it for us," he said, with a sigh. "Arty, the floor is yours." He took a step back needlessly, as they'd both been standing side-by-side.

    "Our mission went off without a hitch, for once. Nice change of pace-" a few people chuckled, despite her exhausted tone- "Pretty simple, just get in, secure the target, and get out. Somebody had hired mercenaries to guard the piece of tech we were there for. We were able to bring it back to S.T.A.R. Labs where it's being watched by Superman," she briefly paused. "No casualties," she added, in what Jaime knew to be a reprimanding tone.

    The room was silent, uncomfortably so, for a few moments.

    Finally, Nightwing dismissed them, and as usual, Jaime refused any offer to stay for movies or games or even homework - he was always done before everyone else - "But I could use some food," he confessed to Bart.

    "Good, because I was beginning to worry." Jaime gave Bart a look, to which he replied, "What? I almost never see you eat when you're here."

    Bart didn't buy that Jaime refused to eat because they were usually on a mission or on patrol. Bart ate during patrols, and missions; even Robin had energy bars somewhere in his belt. Jaime had no excuse, except to say that he wasn't hungry much.

    The truth was that he didn't want Bart to know that he couldn't eat unless he had schedule it. He'd think Jaime was crazy.

    They all sat at the island in the Team's kitchen. The cafeteria, while not reserved only for the League anymore, never felt as homey as their kitchen. Jaime remembered the stories -and the taste - of Megan's burnt cookies back at Mt. Justice. That was before...

    He blinked back the memories, his eyes focusing back on the present.

    Megan pulled out some leftovers, placing them on the island for people to pick at, while she cooked brunch. The actions were nostalgic workout being overly so. 

    Jaime sat with his back to the entrance, which didn't thrill him at all, if he were honest, but the rational part of him knew it was safe. He still felt exposed as he leaned forward to grab a cup to fill with juice. His hand gripped the plastic cup tightly; not enough to turn his knives white but enough for anyone to notice if they were looking

* * *

    Trying to ignore the burgeoning headache that was beginning to form, Jaime strode purposefully down the hall, intent on going home and reviewing each and every single thing that had gone wrong tonight.

    His mind burned as the scarab buzzed relentlessly in the back of his skull, pointing out where, exactly (down to the microsecond), he had stopped being useful and had become a hindrance.

    Bitterly, he wondered just how much of a damn risk he could pose if he reacted without being ready again.

    He had read the disappointment, the disgust, and anger on his teammates - his friends' - faces as they saw or heard what happened. Jaime reviewed the memory, passed over it with a fine-toothed comb, over, and over again. Every time yielded the same answer.

    He hadn't been ready, was not paying enough attention, and he had acted out of instinct. It was purely reactionary, not with the intent to... Even though, considering, he had done as best he could, it was clear to him that it wasn't good enough for either himself or the team.

    Even stone-faced, Artemis had looked at him with contempt; disappointed in his incompetence.

    That's how he knew he really fucked up. Usually, she'd barely spend energy on him; just enough to acknowledge his existence. But today, she had looked - glared almost - at him and reprimanded him, even if it was only with two condemning words.

    No casualties.

    Jaime was already haunted by phrases like that one. Or rather, one casualty, and of course, it would always be his fault.

    Without wanting to - actively _not_  wanting to - Jaime thought back to Wally's (disappearance) death. He was dead and Jaime could have prevented it; the scarab had warned him. He wasn't ready though, and was forced to watch Artemis break down. Helplessly he looked on as his teammates - the ones he had betrayed while a prisoner in his own body - buried a casket with no body.

    It was as empty as Jaime

    He was suddenly alerted to the fact that he was about to have company. He recognized Artemis' heat signature only a moment before he hand shot out, balling her fingers into his shirt, and dragging him around the corner and into an unused room.

    The door slid shut as she slammed him against the nearest wall.

    Pushing down the urge to armor up, the subsequent painful migraine spike that followed caused him to wince and clench his teeth together in agony. The scarab didn't care who was threatening its host, it would protect them.

    Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and stammered, "A-Artemis, -"

    "Shut the fuck up," she snarled harshly, yanking on his collar. "I dragged you in here for one reason, and onereason only. You're going to listen, not say a damn thing, and then I'm going to leave. Bring it up, and I'll make sure you're up to your eyes in monitor duty until you quit. Clear?"

    Her eyes were glowing in the artificial light, blazing infernos contrasting against the muted world around her. The mask she wore made her look like some kind of she-devil, out for his entire bloodline.

    Jaime was terrified; not because he was afraid of what she might do to him = the armor could wipe the floor with almost anyone if he let go of enough control - but because of what might happen if he were to cross her.

    Would he be kicked off the team?

    Would his friends side with her, or with him?

    Would he still be able to be Blue Beetle, or would he be forced to retire?

    He swallowed the quickly thickening lump in his throat, and nodded in agreement of her demands.

    "I don't trust you." she informed him bluntly, as if she wasn't the one forcing him into the small, unused room. "You're dangerous. You can't even watch your own back without trying to kill a guy-"

    Against his better judgment, Jaime tried to defend his actions. "But I-"

    She squeezed his throat - when had her fingers moved to his neck? "Shut up, Reyes, you're not supposed to say a damn thing."

    They waited for a moment. Jaime waited for her to choke him or something, and Artemis waited for him to try and be stupid again.

    Finally, "I told Nightwing that you should be benched." She pushed him back, and he hit his head against the wall.

    Not waiting for an answer or a retort, Artemis released his throat, turned around, and stood before the door.

    "Wait!" he called out, his voice quavering with desperation. "What... What did he say?"

    She glanced over her shoulder at him. A long, tense, and pregnant silence filled the air. Jaime could not tell if she was debating within herself, or just letting him strew. Probably the latter, he decided.

    "He's considering it," she replied, opening the door and leaving him pressed against the wall, his breathing unsteady as his body trembled with dread.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review if you liked it, or not! This story is also up on my FF: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12246794/1/To-Pick-Up-The-Pieces


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